


Trouble Men

by failsafe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Multi, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failsafe/pseuds/failsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha was looking for a new cover and a new life, but an old one seemed to be drawing her back in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloria_scott](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/gifts).



Natasha had been trying to lay low. She'd been place to place, vanishing into crowds of people and in tiny, quiet towns in the middle of nowhere. She had been looking for her next move, her next job, her next life, all while looking to the average observer like she knew all three. Carefully placed paper trails and experimental names were disclosed and scattered in places she thought she might return to, cash and silence the only signs that she'd been there in places she was pretty sure she wouldn't.

She listened more than she talked most places she went. She was nothing and no one everywhere and it was part of her allure. Not that she'd needed it lately.

Then she was in a particular bar in a particular town in the _former_ Soviet Union, precariously balancing between memories she didn't have, memories she didn't want, and memories she sometimes wanted to keep. She was eating her dinner – a plateful of potatoes more than anything else. Trying to figure things out didn't come with a permanent address, and if it had, it certainly wouldn't have been here. She didn't know what kind of luck had put her in the right place at the right time to overhear the couple of young, black-clothing-clad grunts as they came into the bar and got a little looser-tongued, but she often had that kind of luck. 

_'Captain America,'_ one of them had said in the midst of accented German. They laughed and she followed their conversation quietly. She was better with some languages than others, but they weren't exactly being opaque. The moment she heard the familiar moniker, her eyes closed. She let out a breath through her nose, the inconspicuous cousin of a sigh. She stayed where she was, foot swinging back and forth a little height above the floor. She wanted as much information as they'd give her before she found a way to leave. No one knew her, and it was the only advantage she – they – had. 

A little while later, Natasha was standing on scrubby, rocky ground beneath the glow of the dull yellow lighting that illuminated the bar's sign. The air was cool and a little blustery, unseasonable. She pushed her hands down into the deep, soft pockets of a jacket that she'd soon shed. It wasn't the kind of thing that she'd wear for getting into trouble. Or getting someone out of it.

“Damn it, Steve,” she mumbled softly to herself. She was reminded all at once of a weight she'd almost forgotten. He never was one to do the smart thing, to pull back when it was in his best interests. As admirable as it was, it drove her nuts. But he had his life and she had hers. It was easy to compartmentalize it that way, until something like this happened. When he was within reach, doing something dumb, she was going to go after him. He'd do the same for her, and that meant she owed him. Even if he'd never see it that way.

She wasn't equipped for an ideal mission, but it was far from the first time. When she had been a SHIELD agent, she had often – nearly always – been placed deep in enemy territory with no extraction plan, no way out. So many times with Barton, she'd been forced to come up with solutions that would have put MacGyver to shame. She was completely on her own and if anyone was keeping tabs on her whereabouts better than she imagined they could, they certainly weren't coming to give her a hand. She set off anyway, and soon she'd managed to get enough equipment to stand a chance. She carried it in a backpack until she reached an old, chain-link barrier fence that didn't seem that foreboding. Then she replaced the equipment with her jacket and worked on securing some role around her waist and shoulder, other tools and things that might come in handy, mean the difference in life or death for her or someone else, found places in her clothes and against her skin. Too much of her arms were exposed, but it was better that than having something that would be easily snagged and catch on old, rusty metal.

Over the fence, it was quiet and easy to approach. She was miles and miles from where she'd started, but once she knew they were active in the area, it hadn't been that hard to find the only extant facilities that even might house the work of those who fancied themselves the arbiters of what was best for the human race. The building beyond her was low, stark in its angles, and dull in color. It was underwhelming, surrounded by a wide perimeter of unhealthy grass that was clinging to life. The most unnerving part of it was how far she had to go on foot, out in the open, to get to any possible entrance.

She'd made it almost within distance of cover when she took fire. She managed to keep moving, to be a very difficult target, but she had very little in terms of firepower. She had to make it count. She thought she had cut it too close when she managed to get some cover, and then she climbed along the unforgiving, block of a building. The roof wasn't very high above ground which gave her the impression that this little building must have been only the tip of the iceberg or that it was much larger than it at first appeared. In the confusion that followed the notice of an approaching intruder, she managed to neutralize two guards quickly and take a pass-key to get inside. She knew that if they had anything close to adequate communications that she was found out. She had no intel about what she was getting into, and she was a spy not a soldier, but she had to try.

Then came the first time she had to discharge the gun she had. Now that she'd taken out a couple of guards, she carried two. The interior of the building seemed as though it held no hidden depths. It was an outpost in the middle of a virtual no man's land – nothing of use to be seen. She wasn't about to waste time trying to figure out what _they_ were up to. No, she needed to know the layout and that was it.

She chose a door down the hallway that had a crashbar entrance. She tried it and it opened without resistance. The structure was eerily quiet. It had every marker of a _Cold War_ structure – bunker paranoia. She was susceptible to it, too, after what she'd been through. She tried not to give any kind of tell away when she heard the sound of a man's voice. She edged around the corner of a long, high metal shelf that was lined with different kinds of storage containers. She could tell that the company she had in the room was restrained and she guessed that he was at sitting-height. If that was Steve then something was very, very wrong. More than anything, she just hoped she hadn't followed the wrong lead. The gurgle of voice had been so faint and hard to define that she had to check, to try.

She rounded the corner, weapon drawn for a kind of direct confrontation that she was fully capable of following through but which still felt exceptionally stupid. She wouldn't have risked it for just anyone, not under just any circumstances. She wasn't sure if it seemed better or worse that the people who manned this operation seemed pretty lax and unprepared.

“Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” a familiar voice asked her with a tired chuckle that lolled slightly with his head. It seemed like he was dehydrated, exhausted, bruised and with a few slowly bleeding cuts that dotted clothes with red.

Natasha blinked to refocus her eyes on what she saw in front of her. She was a little hesitant in lowering her weapon, then she moved more smoothly to get over to him.

“Well I know there's only one reason you'd be here,” she said as she went around to examine the way his wrists were bound. He wasn't weak, but it looked like they'd gotten him at a disadvantage. They'd need to be pretty lucky to take Sam after what she'd seen the day SHIELD fell.

“Yeah, I'm on vacation,” Sam said dryly. “Came to bust up a HYDRA summer camp. Used to have a different name for those back in the day...” he said, clearly making a concerted effort not to mumble.

“Where is he?” Natasha asked as she freed Sam's wrists, not hesitating for a moment when she saw no apparent signs of a trap. She trusted him implicitly – something that didn't happen very often. He wouldn't lie to her.

“He's, uh... comin', I'd imagine. Gonna be pissed when he gets here. What, you mean he didn't... call you in? Wouldn't blame a man for overreacting, the way he's lost friends,” Sam commented, voice a little more collected as he was solemn and tried his weight on his feet while Natasha worked to free him.

Natasha straightened from having set Sam free of his mediocre bonds. She met his eyes and swiped her hair back away from her face. She seemed to have the luxury of time.

“He didn't call for me. I haven't talked to him. I just happened to be in the area, and I—”

“You musta heard something,” Sam continued when Natasha had cut herself off abruptly.

“Yeah,” she agreed vaguely. “How are you feeling on your feet?” she asked. She reached up and placed a careful, firm grip on his upper arm. “I've got you.”

“I'm... good. I'll... be good. Just... can you get us out of here?” Sam asked. Natasha thought it sounded like there was a little more to that question than he'd voiced. She tilted her head curiously.

“Get you out of here... alone?” she suggested.

“Listen, it's not that I doubt it. It's just, I don't wanna be dead weight. Neither of us are Captain America.”

“He and I have very _different_ skill-sets,” Natasha said smoothly with half a smirk.

“Listen, I... know I don't exactly... _know_ you. But I trust you,” Sam volunteered. “You're... a lot a like, too. Different, but yeah. The two of you showin' up on my porch...” He trailed off as he staggered forward, clearly uncomfortable but dragging himself along. He'd been in combat situations before, and Natasha had to trust that.

“Can lean on me,” she said, not immediately acknowledging the suggestion. It struck her in a weird place – the thought – but it wasn't the first time she'd had it. They'd found themselves on the same _team_ more often than she'd ever have expected out of someone called 'Captain America' when she met him. She cleared her throat after a moment as she chose to lead Sam out the way she'd come in. It was the shortest way and the path of least resistance. She was really beginning to believe that only three people had been guarding Sam which only made sense if they had no idea what picking on Captain America's friend, partner, could mean. Even if she was wrong, she was armed and determined not to let Steve – or Sam, the man leaning on her and breathing like a man who really, really needed to rest and heal up from the cruelty of children wanting to play at war – down. “You went with him,” she remarked.

“Yeah?” Sam asked as if he was confused for a second. She hoped that wasn't a bad sign and glanced up at his face to see if he was showing any signs of being worse off than she'd first assessed. She reached up, hand briefly placed at the center of his chest. He calmly caught his breath. “Yeah, I guess I did. I just... couldn't... leave, y'know?”

“Guess I'm better at it,” Natasha said with a small smile that might have been a little sad. A few moments later she was the first one out the door, looking left and right and ahead, sensing in every direction she could, for any sign of danger. Sam was in bad enough shape that another risk at being wounded was something she was not willing to take unless it was absolutely necessary. Then, she heard an almost familiar throttling of a small engine in the distance – a motorcycle. Her small smile returned this time, less bitter in flavor.

“Yeah?” Sam asked, and judging by the tone of his voice, he heard it, too. He'd know better than she did. “But you always come back.”

“Come on, I think we're clear,” Natasha said, then she hurried him as quickly as she could across the long expanse of dry grass to some darkness and cover. Then she forged a path for them toward the small, dusty trail that the motorcycle roared down, signaling its approach. She tugged Sam down below the line of some bushes. He wasn't hard to convince. He knew what he was doing and it reminded her that she didn't need to treat him like dead weight, no matter how fragile something about him seemed. She glanced over at him and considered it, the way he was still alert when he'd been beaten and lost fluid. He wasn't fragile. He just wasn't yet touched and damaged the way they'd been. He had a fresh set of eyes.

“I don't ever mean to,” she said when she became more and more sure that the way the motorcycle roared and handled sounded like Steve. She didn't let her guard down much, but she looked over at Sam for a few more seconds at a time. She thought she was apologizing, but there was a quiet that settled between them that made it hard to navigate.

“But you do,” Sam said. He cleared his throat and briefly waved a hand in a way she thought was meant to clear the air, to correct an assumption. “I mean, you always come back. I stayed because I... wanted to help him, you know? And you... came to help me. There's something... about that. Good for us to both have his back or... something like that. Sorry, head's a little fuzzy.”

“We'll get you to a hospital,” Natasha said, some urgency returning to her limbs as she started to find a way up to the dirt road. She needed to alert to their presence so Steve wouldn't be too alarmed. He wouldn't accidentally hurt them, though. She trusted Steve with her life. With their lives.

“Used to be my job,” Sam mumbled from the brush alongside her.

“Ssshhh,” she insisted, but she cast a little smile back toward him, her hand gripping reassuringly at his arm before she stood to her full height. “I just came to get you out of trouble. Captain America doesn't know _how_ to do trouble.” she suggested, carrying on conversation as she waved Steve down when he was in her line of sight. Watching his face behind a mask light up in a way that was easier to read with knowing him a little almost made her laugh. “Here,” she said, kneeling back down to help him up as Steve approached them on foot.

“Wanna bet?” Sam mumbled as he accepted her offer of helping hold his weight.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed your gift! It was based on your suggestion that a mission goes south and Natasha has to rescue Sam. The focus is primarily on Natasha and Sam but with some allusions to their mutual affection for Steve that could perhaps be read ambiguously but which could go into polyamorous territory, I think. I really liked your suggestion that their playing match-maker might lead to them realizing that they are great for each other (and Steve) and I tried to add a little flavor of that to the mix though apparently my writing led me in a slightly more dramatic direction than a matchmaking fic. Again, I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
